‘What do you mean?’
‘Evangeline was a former midwife, a royal nurse or whatever she called herself. I have no doubt that the tales she spun were based on rumour, lie, wishful thinking,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘or court gossip. Well, you can take your choice.’ Athelstan could feel the rise in tension. Thibault pulled himself up in his chair; Lascelles’ hand slipped to the hilt of his dagger.
‘When I was a boy,’ Athelstan continued softly, ‘my father had a small holding. Most of our summers were dry and I always remember my father being anxious lest a fire be started in the wheat field. He and other villagers hired Machlin, a former mercenary, to guard against this. Machlin was given a small hut on top of a hill. He was provided with food and drink and accepted into our community.’
‘And?’ Thibault asked.
‘Machlin was very good, extremely vigilant in reporting the outbreak of fires until, of course, my father became suspicious. He discovered that Machlin was starting the very fires he was reporting. Machlin wanted to be a hero, a saviour.’
‘The business in Flanders?’ Lascelles rasped.
‘Now I think,’ Athelstan continued, holding Thibault’s gaze, ‘that Evangeline would have gone to her grave and kept to herself the farrago of lies about My Lord of Gaunt. But someone approached her posing as Gaunt’s great enemy, enticing her greed with the prospect of fat profit.’
‘My Lord of Gaunt has many enemies.’
‘I just wonder,’ Athelstan replied, ‘if this mysterious messenger was sent by Gaunt’s friends, someone who wanted to depict himself as a saviour, the man who crushed filthy lies and rumours about our glorious Plantagenet Prince. Someone who started the fire then posed as the saviour who extinguished it.’
‘And whoever could that be?’
‘Oh I would have to prove that, but Sir John here could help. We would go through the licences issued to those who have travelled to Flanders. We would make careful enquiries about why they went, where they went and what they did.’ Athelstan now stared at Lascelles, who moved uncomfortably.
‘I don’t think that would be necessary,’ Thibault remarked.
‘No, neither do I,’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I’m sure the Lady Eleanor will remain safe. I am also confident, Master Thibault, that you will always hold the parish of Saint Erconwald’s in tender respect, and that you will regard my flock as more misled than malevolent.’ Thibault smiled and nodded. Cranston bit his lip to stop laughing.
‘In which case. .’ Athelstan pushed back the chair and raised his hand in blessing. Thibault opened the small coffer on his right. He took out a small purse of clinking silver which he tied securely and pushed across the desk for Athelstan to take.
‘Please distribute that among the poor of your parish, Brother Athelstan.’ He gestured at the coroner. ‘Sir John, you have done my master a great service — it shall not be forgotten. Now, it’s best if you go.’
Within the hour Cranston and Athelstan had left the Tower and joined the noisy, colourful throng on the approaches to the bridge.
‘Athelstan!’ Cranston paused and pointed to the severed heads displayed above the gatehouse.
‘Do you ever despair at the sheer, squalid wickedness, the weariness and waste of it all?’
‘Isaiah, twenty-six,’ Athelstan replied. ‘God’s promise that one day he will wipe away the tears from every eye. I truly believe that, Sir John. In the end, time will run backwards and full justice will be done.’ Athelstan closed his eyes. He shivered as he recalled that beautiful young woman falling against the coming night, tumbling into the hands of God and those other souls cruelly snatched from life and dispatched to judgement.
‘I must not despair,’ he whispered. He opened his eyes and tugged at Cranston’s cloak. ‘For the moment, Sir John, let me wipe away a few tears and what better place than the Holy Lamb of God!’
